


it's better when i'm sleeping

by drakarifire



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dreams, Explicit Language, Grief/Mourning, I don't know what to tag this as, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, i'M SAD, it's sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:29:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakarifire/pseuds/drakarifire
Summary: Richie starts to dream about Eddie.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	it's better when i'm sleeping

Eddie died in his arms. 

Eddie was dead. 

The realization wouldn’t suck so bad if he didn’t have to keep reminding himself about it. 

That’s the funny thing about grief. It’s about as bad as the clown amnesia bullshit. You forget. Not completely, not enough to pretend like everything is fine. No, you forget in the worst way, the painful way. The way that has you turning to tell your best friend a joke and realizing he’s not there. 

He’s never going to be there again. 

The worst part about all this is that Richie spent almost three fucking decades with no idea who Eddie Kaspbrak even was. He’d lived an entire life without Eddie so why was it so fucking hard to go back to that? Why did it matter that Eddie wasn’t laughing at his jokes or calling him names? Why did he care that Eddie wasn’t glaring at him or punctuating his words with frantic gestures, crowding into Richie’s space like he owned it? 

You know why it matters asshole. You _know_. 

_Dirty little secret…_

He thought maybe after recarving their initials into the Kissing Bridge he’d feel better somehow. Like acknowledging his own pain, his own inner truth, would make all this turmoil inside of him let up. He tried to take comfort in the fact that he wasn’t alone in the world anymore. The Losers were out there, they might not get why losing Eddie hurt so much, but they understood enough. Grief was easier to manage when you knew there were other people in the world going through the same motions for the same reasons. They’d lost Eddie too, and Stan. 

God, but that’s the kicker about depression isn’t it? You’ve done this fucked up song and dance before Tozier. 

A week of being functional, where he flies back to LA and he thinks maybe he’s going to be okay. He’s glad when the memories don’t get fuzzy, smiles and laughs at the texts from his friends in his phone. He’s good. He’ll be fine. Hell, he even considers writing his own material. 

Then he dreams about Eddie. 

He’s expecting nightmares. God he’d been almost too scared to sleep just thinking about what was waiting for him. He just has to close his eyes to see Eddie’s face looking down at him, pained and terrified. That strangled “Richie” following him like a ghost all the way from Derry. Echoing through the rooms of his house and making him think….shit, I’m _alone_. 

He expects the worst but what he gets is the familiar feeling of dappled sunlight shining down through the slates of the clubhouse roof. Gangly limbs all tangled up in the hammock, Eddie’s big brown eyes watching him expectantly. 

“I miss you Eds.” He says in his dream, voice prepubescent and shaking at the edges. 

“Don’t be stupid Richie, I’m right here.” 

“No you’re not, you died.” 

Thirteen year old Eddie has the audacity to look at him like he’s grown a second head. One slender leg kicks out, hitting Richie in the side. 

He doesn’t know what it says about him that he welcomes the sensation of pain blossoming beneath his skin. 

“That’s a real fucked up thing to say.” 

“Yeah well watching it happen wasn’t exactly a fucking picnic.” 

Eddie’s brows scrunch and it’s so unbelievably Eddie that Richie feels himself start to cry. His vision blurs, Eddie looks like he’s going to say something, but the dream is gone and Richie’s really crying now. Though he supposed he always was. His arms wrapped tightly around his pillow. 

He’s pretty sure this is what drowning felt like. 

Vague memories of being held under the dirty water at the quarry. Eddie’s weight pushing him beneath the surface, small hands struggling to keep him under. Never long enough to drown, never with any malice or ill intent- but he comes up hacking anyway. Lungs burning as he gasps desperately for air. His own fault for laughing underwater. Waking up from the dreams feels a hell of a lot like that only worse. Like no amount of coughing is going to dislodge the water from his lungs. 

It’s weeks before there’s another one, and the sleep between is punctuated by the usual. If he has nightmares about the clown they’re tame enough that he doesn’t really remember them in the morning. He’d pat himself on the back for dodging the night terrors bullet if the other dreams didn’t hurt so goddamn much. 

They’re in the hammock again, only the lights are dimmer so Richie guesses that it’s getting late outside. For whatever that’s worth in a dream. He’s got his hand on Eddie’s calf and he could remember always feeling so shocked that Eddie just...let him. That he didn’t kick or squirm or tell him to stop. 

“I’m bored Rich.” Eddie huffed, letting his head fall back to stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to go home.” 

“Don’t.” Honestly Richie is too far gone to give a fuck about how his voice sounds. Too open, too telling. “Stay with me.” It cracks. He’s not surprised. He’s pretty sure if he was a piece of glass he’d be a breath away from shattering. 

Eddie looks at him, brows crinkling in consideration. “Mom’ll be mad.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Not here. You’re dead Eds, she’s dead.” 

“Why do you keep saying that shit?” Eddie bristles, small shoulders tightening defensively. “I’m not fucking dead asshole, that’s not funny.” 

“I’m not laughing.” 

That makes Eddie pause, all the fury melting away from him. His expression softens, darting over Richie’s like he’s trying to make sense of something. Like he only now realized that Richie isn’t being Richie, he’s not laughing and he’s not smiling. “Okay.” He says finally, “I’ll stay.” He lets himself sink further into the hammock. 

If he notices Richie’s hand tightening around his leg he doesn’t mention it. 

They don’t talk until Richie wakes up again, and Richie can’t tell if he’s choking on his sobs or all the things he wished he could have said. 

The dreams get more frequent...or maybe that’s bullshit. 

Richie starts sleeping more. 

He misses calls and meals and work shit. He curls up in bed and forces himself to sleep even when his brain is firing on all cylinders. He’s chasing the dreams and the warm safety of the clubhouse, the comfort of Eddie’s presence. Always they slip through his fingers. Always he wakes up crying or cursing at himself because he had Eddie laughing or smiling and now he’s awake and it’s gone. 

The Losers are worried but it’s background noise next to the loud _EddieEddieEddie_ , that consumes him. 

Sometimes Stan is there. 

  
“Have you guys seen Georgie?” Richie can’t help but ask, because he feels like he has to. Like maybe if this isn’t all just in his head, he could bring something back to his friends. Bring something back to Bill. 

Stan and Eddie both look at him like they don’t know what he’s talking about. 

“Is this because you keep saying we’re dead?” 

“You are.” 

“No we’re not.” And Eddie sounds so frustrated, so absolutely done with his shit. He’s not surprised when he lunges forward, grabbing Richie’s hand and pressing it against his chest. 

Richie is shocked at the steady drum of a heartbeat against his palm. A little fast, a little frantic, but present. Eddie’s heartbeat makes him feel like his palm is burning. 

“See, not dead.” 

Stan is nodding like this is the most rational thing in the world. Richie feels like he’s having a crisis as he pulls his hand back and stares down at his palm, flexing his fingers. 

He still feels it, feather light against his skin when he wakes up. 

  
Bill tries to strong arm his way into Richie’s life. He shoves himself through the crack in the door and cringes at the sight that greets him on the other side. Richie greasy haired and haggard, his apartment a mess of fast-food delivery bags. All Richie can bring himself to do is glare because he was sleeping and he was telling Eddie about a movie he’d seen. 

Bill has his hands on Richie’s shoulders, concern all over his face. All Richie can think about is how mad Eddie’s going to be not to know what happens at the end. 

“Rich, please. Let us help you.” 

“I’m fine Big Bill. Just catching up on my z’s. Would you believe I haven’t slept in the last 27 years?” 

“Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time? Sleeping?” 

Richie shrugs, partly because he doesn’t want to answer and partly because he wants to get out from under Bill’s grip. He stumbles, still drowsy, further into the house. “Like a fucking baby.” 

“Richie that’s not good. You need help.” 

  
The laugh that comes out of him is so loud that it makes them both jump. A bark of sound ripped from his lungs with enough force that it hurts. He hasn’t laughed since...well since Derry. “Bill gets off a good one.” 

“Richie I-” 

“No, seriously Bill. Tell me.” He turns on his heel, and there’s something manic in his voice. “How exactly does one broach ‘killer space clown’ with a therapist? Or better yet! Hey! I got magical amnesia when I left my home town and totally forgot I was super fucking gay for my best friend. Oh, and let’s not forget the part where he fucking died in my arms. That’s gotta be every psychiatrist’s wet dream.” He lifts his hands, palms up with an ‘oh well’ expression on his face. 

“Rich.” 

Richie should probably feel concerned. He should probably be having a panic attack right now. The realization that he just...outed himself slaps him in the face at the sheer devastation on Bill’s. 

“Get out Bill.” 

“Richie I’m sorry.” He’s taking a step forward, but Richie takes an even bigger step back. 

“I said get the fuck out of my house Bill. I mean it.” His hands are clenched at his sides. “I’m tired.” 

“Richie please.” 

“I’m giving you ten seconds before I do something we’re both going to regret.” 

Bill’s shoulders sag, it’s not like him to give up. Even when he’s moving back towards the door he doesn’t turn his back on Richie. He keeps their eyes pinned on each other, keeps his lips drawn into a tight line. “Let us in Richie. Don’t do this.Eddie wouldn’t want that.” 

“He wouldn’t want to be left to rot in a sewer either and yet here we fucking are.” 

Later, while the slamming of his front door is still echoing in the back of his mind, he thinks maybe he should have regrets. He knows that it’s not fair to them, but it’s so hard to make himself care. He hasn’t cared about anything but Eddie for weeks now, least of all himself. Having people trying to care about him specifically is exhausting. 

Everything is exhausting. 

So he sleeps. 

“I think Ben and Bev are going to get married.” 

“Doesn’t Bev like Bill?” Eddie asks, head tilting. “I really thought if anyone got married it’d be them.” Eddie seems to have gotten used to the weird shit Richie says. He accepts Richie’s updates on his life as though they’re reality, listens to Richie’s jokes and laughs even if he doesn’t really get the references. 

“Nah, I think she just didn’t realize she liked Ben. I get it. I think. Bill is...he’s Bill.” 

“Yeah...do you like anyone?” 

Richie is surprised that he doesn’t freeze at the question. Is surprised when his hand doesn’t snap back from Eddie’s leg like it’s burning. He thinks maybe he can say it this time. With the sunlight streaming down and lacing Eddie’s hair with gold. He thinks maybe he feels safe for once, safe and warm, and happy. 

“Yeah I-” 

He wakes up. 

He tries again. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again. 

He tries at the end of the dream and at the beginning. Sometimes they're the first words that want to come out of his mouth the second he sees Eddie look at him. Sometimes he tries to scream them when he feels the edges growing fuzzy and the dream turning to wispy smoke in his hands. No matter how many times he tries, no matter what he does, he always wakes up before the words come out. 

So eventually he just stops trying. 

He stops trying to do a lot of things. 

He gives up food in favor of telling Eddie stories. He gives up on getting out of bed because bed means Eddie and any piece of Eddie the universe is willing to give him is a piece he wants to keep clutched tightly to his chest. 

If he manages to glance in the mirror he tries not to register it. The gaunt, hollowness of his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes. Are his eyes milky white? Is that the light? 

Does he care? 

He sighs, light headed and clutching the walls. 

It’s okay that he doesn’t make it back to bed. It’s alright. It doesn’t matter. 

He curls up on the floor and closes his eyes. 

Eddie smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is kind of heavy and directionless.  
> the reason for that is because this is kind of...idk how to say it??  
> it's kind of personal for me because this is basically how my grief manifested itself. 
> 
> i've been feeling a little down lately, stressed out and i guess I need to project all the bad stuff somewhere. sorry richie. i love you.


End file.
